Unopened Doors
by wildskysong
Summary: Five Things That Never Happened to the Eragon characters, and the one thing that did. Drabble series, ongoing, taking requests. Chapter 4 up, Roran. Please review! Rated T for dark themes. Really dark themes, and angst. Lots of angst, and... other stuff.
1. Eragon

**Hi! Well, I know I should be working on Eldunari, but this demanded it be told… stupid muse. This will be an ongoing drabble series, so if you want to see a character done just leave me a review or PM me… Yeah. Don't worry, Chapter 15 of Eldunari is with my beta, so it should be up within the next few days!!**

**This is a series of drabbles dealing with the infamous "Five things that never happened." Basically, the author(in this case, me) writes a five- part vignette with mini- plots that never occured, like Murtagh escaping the Twins or Eragon stopping his love for Arya. Yay!!! But I added my own twist as usual, so this is "FTTNH and the One Thing That Did!" Whoop!! First up is Eragon!! I had an obscene amount of fun with this one… Seriously. My sadistic side had a field day. **

**Disclaimer- CP owns everything. All I own is a rather irritable, fickle muse with a taste for the macarbe and a tempermental, sensitive computer named Yoko, who has a knack for causing me grief…**

* * *

Five Things That Never Happened

I: Brothers

"_You must kill him if we are to survive."_

The order rings in your ears as you gaze up at the smoke- smeared sky, scanning for the prick of red in the horizon. Fear and agony clench around your heart, and you feel like crying because of what you have to do. Beneath you Saphira leaps powerfully into the air, her heart as heavy as yours. You know what you must do.

Brisingr seems to sing in your grasp, eager to be unleashed on the enemy. But instead of diving to attack the Empire's soldiers below you fly on, aiming for the prick of red that grows steadily larger. The elves and the Varden are thrashing below the blot of red, boiling under the fierce gouts of crimson flame Roran is down there, you realize, fighting for his life.

Your blood runs cold, because _he_ is there, killing them all, watching flames devour those below like they had devoured his very being. You see him riding the warm air, glittering in his armor, sharp pain grasped in his mailed hand. The fire is leaping from his dragon and his hands. He is burning your friends.

Rage blooms in your chest and you roar like the dragon you are becoming. Then the world is all blue and red and fire and flashing fangs, and you can't even think, let alone mourn.

You catch a glimpse of him,; a face so like your own, but with longer, darker hair and blazing blue eyes and sorrow etched into the features, as though drawn there by the point of a sword. Your heart freezes again, and you hesitate. He does not.

Reeling in agony, you nurse your bloody shoulder, snarling in pain along with Saphira. Hate blossoms with the rage, and you want to kill. The attack is renewed, the legions of dead souls adding to your strength.

He and his Thorn are no match for you and your Saphira and the battle is brief and vicious. The red is pinned to the cliff face; there is no escape. Your brown eyes meet his icy blue and for the first time you see regret sparkling there, and pain.

His blue meets your brown, and in that moment, the red blade lowers. You feel your eyes widen in shock and the hate lessens.

"Kill me." He says. "End it." Then he smiles.

A flash of blue, a screech of pain, white talons lashing out, and then blood flows down from the shattered sky like rain and two bodies fall down to land harshly. Cheers erupt from the Varden but you don't care, because your hand are shaking and your face is white as death. You have killed your brother.

The Empire is in retreat, fleeing the cheering, whooping Varden. You should go and help them, but you can't. Instead you and Saphira sink slowly down, to their crushed bodies. They could be sleeping if it wasn't for the gaping wounds and the awkward positions of their limbs. Saphira goes and nudges Thorn into a more natural position, but you can not bring yourself to touch your brother. He looks so much like yourself when he smiles. The rare phenomenon is on his face now, and you realize that you have never seen him smile. Pain explodes inside you and your heart is breaking and your mind is screaming. Somehow you manage to stumble away and collapse against Saphira's hard blue scales. You wish you could cry, but all you can do is limp back to the Varden, subject to their cheers and approval. Drinks are thrust at you and you willingly drink them, for it is better to forget and drown your sorrows. Nasuada tells you the Varden will march on Uru' baen in two days. You will be sober by then, but never the same.

Even without his most valuable servant the King was a terrible foe, and the battle rages for a long time. But in the end you triumph, freeing Alagaesia and fulfilling your destiny. Murtagh would have liked that, you think. He would have been happy you killed the King. But he would have wanted to be there with you, to have helped you defeat his tormentor. You think that maybe you will visit his grave, bring the good news. But you never do, because he already knows, and you can not shake the feeling that his grave is your own.

You never do visit his grave, but sail away from Alagaesia and your pain, watching the mountains shrink into the blue sea. You do not look back, not then, not ever, just like you do not cry for Murtagh and the life he lost.

(Part of you mourns your brother, who will never again smile, but you cannot bring yourself to cry, because you have looked into his smiling face and seen yourself, and one does not cry over one's own death)

* * *

II: Forget

"_Forget me, Eragon, and move on."_

Those words sliced out your heart when she spoke them, after you had proclaimed your love for her and asked her to marry you. She spoke them unfeelingly and left you there, shocked and broken. That day your heart died.

You threw yourself into your work, rebuilding the Riders after a century of oppression. After a time a woman caught your eye, and she was happy to fill the void left by _her_ rejection. But she was a mortal woman, and she died, leaving you colder and emptier than ever.

Centuries passed, and a crime was committed against one of the elves. The crime stirred up long forgotten thoughts in your frozen mind, and you decide to go to her funeral.

She lies on the white casket, her raven hair pulled back, her brilliant eyes close forever, her face paler than you remember. They tell you it was a brutal attack and their were no survivors. A blow to the throat killed her. You gaze down at her body, the faint remnants of love, regret, and sorrow stirring in your heart. You find yourself dimly surprised, because it has been a long time since you have felt any of these emotions. You touch her face, almost tenderly, a last testament to the love that destroyed you.

"_Forget me." _Her voice whispers. And you do.

(Once you dreamed of spending eternity with her, but that dream died with your heart on that day so many years ago. You are on your fourteenth wife now, and you realize with a jolt of dry irony that they all have had green eyes)

* * *

III: Cold

"_Join me, and you can have all the power in the world."_

His promise thrums in the air around you as you bind yourself to him, the words falling from your tongue in a joyous, eager cascade. Excitement throbs in your veins. At last you will have the power to stop your enemies from hurting the ones you love. Unflinching you bind yourself to the one man you swore to destroy, and he willingly gives you his power. It surges through you hungrily, tearing away all regret and other weak emotions you feel. You can save them now, you know.

You and Saphira fly to the battle, where your loved ones are, fighting. A flick of your wrist and the fighting stops, for half the combatants are dead. He Varden is dissolved, you announce, and when Nasuada tries to protest you kill her. How easy it has become, killing. Now your loved ones will be safe, free. The Varden's leaders are executed one by one, an example, you say.

Roran will be the first to receive your protection. You have him drafted into the army. He will rise quickly through the ranks, you think ,and provide his wife and child with the best possible future. It comes as a surprise to you to learn that he was charged with betrayal and must be killed, but your King has ordered it and it must be so. You watch his execution passively, your eyes meeting his.

"I hate you!" He screams. "Traitor!" His eyes dim and his life fades. This should bother you, but it doesn't.

Murtagh tries to free you, but he too is sentenced to death. A brief flare of disappointment crosses your mind, for after all you offered him your protection too, but he rejected it in favor of death. His blue eyes remain on yours all he is killed, never once leaving your face. For a time they will haunt your nightmares, but you are past the ability to mourn and regret now, wrapped up in the darkness as you are.

You approach the last of your loved ones, power extended, sweet words on your lips. You can protect her, you say, her and her unborn child. She will never have to be afraid again.

"No." She says in her low, musical voice. "No, Eragon. I can't, not now."

A part of you screams in torment and dies, but the other part grabs Brisingr and runs her through, crimson staining her white dress. "I'm sorry you feel that way, love. We could have been great together." You say, not really sorry at all, for Eragon is gone, lost in the violent swirls of power and loss and hate.

"You monster!" She screams, her words blistering, burning your very soul, and then the world is silent. You walk away, for she is most surely dead and you will never think her name again. You will rule at your master's side forever, and no one will dare rise up and oppose you.

(The image of her would have tortured you forever, but Eragon is dead, and the monster in his place does not feel remorse or regret, he accepts, and moves on)

* * *

IV: Shatter

"_You cannot keep a dragon here! What will happen to Roran and I?"_

You shuffle through the snow, numb and broken. You have been kicked out of your own home, by your own flesh and blood, but that is not the worst of it. Garrow killed her. He raised a knife to her blue throat and killed her. How could he? Did he not see the innocence shining in her sapphire eyes? You screamed and screamed and screamed when he killed her, as though part of yourself had been torn away. He kicked you out, fear on his face, and in your shattered state you do not know why.

"Easy, lad, easy." Old Brom the storyteller is there beside you, gruffly holding your shaking elbow.

"He killed her." You whisper brokenly, your eyes unseeing.

Brom wraps you in a fatherly embrace as you cry, empathy in his voice as he murmurs to you. Your tears soak his shirt, and all you can think about it the blue hatchling who so eagerly scurried along your floor that morning.

(In the back of your mind you are dimly aware of the Fates howling in rage, because their grand plan has ended and the world is still doomed in darkness, but you cannot bring your shattered heart to care, because your mind screams for hers and your soul bleeds for hers. Fate did this to you, and you cannot bring yourself to forget and forgive)

* * *

V: Hollow

"_One day you will leave this land and never return."_

The war is finally over, you have won, and Alagaesia is at peace. The Riders are flourishing again and a new King has ascended the throne, one who is wise, just and mortal. You should be happy ,but you are not. Something out there is calling to you, singing a song of new things in your ear. You want to go to it, but neither you nor Saphira knows where it is.

For some reason you keep returning to the sea, gazing out at the unfamiliar, vast, sparkling blueness that reaches to the horizon, drowning the sun each hand every evening. Yu gaze out to the sinking sun, hollowness in your chest.

"The sea used to call to me when I was a boy." Your brother steps up to stand beside you, his blue eyes fixed on the sea. "I would stand on the shore for hours, lost in the vastness of it."

"Do you think there is anything out there?" You ask. He grins at you.

"One way to find out, brother." He walks away, leaving you to think. Perhaps the reason you feel so hollow is because there is nothing left for you to accomplish here in Alagaesia. Angelar's prophecy whispers in your ears, and you know where the song is coming from.

That very day you and Saphira and Murtagh and Torn leave for the world beyond the sea, Arya and Nasuada tagging along for company. None of you know what lies past the horizon, but the humans and elves had to come from somewhere, and after all, you have eternity to discover what lies where the sun sets.

(Never once do you look back, for you crave adventure and purpose in your life, and feeling hollow drains you. This is a much better lifestyle for you, to sail without reason to the unknown world. The hollowness you found in your birthplace will never touch you again)

* * *

And The One Thing That Did

I: Bound

"_She is the one woman I want to spend eternity with."_

The stars light up the glade in Ellesmera, dancing off the crystal pool. You can see the apprehension in her green eyes, wariness, and also love.

"It's beautiful here." She murmurs.

"Not as beautiful as you." Your response is automatic and sincere. "Arya… I love you." You tell her, truth ringing through your bond and the ancient language. You bend down on one knee, smiling at the surprise in her emerald eyes. You pull out the ring you made. It is a simple thing, with a dwarf- cut diamond set in a band of the purest silver. "Will you marry m?" Your voice is gentle when you ask the question that has always lain dormant in your heart, since the moment you first laid eyes on Arya in your dreams.

"Oh Eragon…" She says softly. Her eyes met yours, and she smiles. "Yes."

You laugh joyfully, a song in your heart and in the voices of all the forest animals as they sing out the good news. You kiss the only woman you have ever loved more passionately than you ever have before, fierce joy burning in your lips and heart. The wedding will take place in two months, and you know exactly who to ask to perform the ceremony.

(The shock on Islanzadi's face is almost as priceless as Arya's laughter, and you doubt that poor Murtagh will ever recover from the wedding feast, especially since he had never seen Roran naked)

* * *

**Ah, that felt wonderful... I really had a good time playing around with this. Some clarifiaction: the first is Eragon killing Murtagh, which hasn't happened as off yet. The second is briefer, in which Arya rejects Eragon and he forgets her. The third, my favorite, is a dark Eragon bit, and I do believe a follow- up might be needed. The fourth is shorter, where Garrow kills Saphira, and the fifth is Eragon leaving. **

**What do you all think? Good, bad, awful? I personally have become enamoured with the dark Eragon idea, and might explore it later... YAY!!! Alright, so if you want to see a character done, leave me a review or PM me, butbe sure to offer some ideas... My muse is not all- creative, and is prone to failing in times of need...**

**Review, and Eldunari will be updated soon. Love ya! ~WSS**


	2. Arya

**Hey, I'm back with an update for this!!! Yay!!! I'm still working on Eldunari, don't worry, and will update on Friday, hopefully. Or Saturday. Whatever.**

**Right, so onto this. Thank you guys for reviewing, it means the world to me, but don't expect regular updates. This is a fic/ drabble series to ease the writer's block, so updates will be sporadic. This is Arya's FTTNH, so enjoy!! Parts III and IV were really fun to write. I mean REALLY fun. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer- CP wns the Inheritance sandbox; I am just knocking over his sandcastle to make rooom for my own. No money is made from this, except the five bucks my friend owes me for actually completing this chapter.**

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I: Perfect

"_I will not tolerate my only daughter tramping off the Varden."_

You tell yourself that she only forbade you from going to the Varden because she loves you. She didn't want you to get hurt. You are the heir to the elf kingdom, and proper princesses do _not_ act as ambassadors. They stay put and act like royalty.

The three ambassador ferry the egg to and from the Varden, clinging to the precious hope that it will hatch someday. When they are ambushed and slaughtered and the egg stolen, your mother tells you that she _knew_ this would happen. That the ambassadors would be killed, the egg returned to the King. Hope is lost.

Faolin stands at your side, his tender hand brushing down your arm. He traded his place with Vanir to stay with you. Glenwing was his friend, you remember, but you can not bring yourself to display sorrow. Your heart has iced over. It is part of being the perfect princess, after all.

You are there with your mother when she speaks to the other elves, false sadness laced in her voice. You can read the true meaning of her honeyed words, and it sickens you..

"This is a great tragedy for the elves." _I'm so glad it wasn't my daughter, my heir._ "Three young, brave warriors were lost, and we all mourn." _Better them then Arya. All you fools with hearts can weep, but I will rejoice. _"The egg has been lost, but we will not lose hope." _The egg is back in the hands of the King and we will fall, like the Riders._ "Have hope, my people, and remember these three warriors' brave sacrifice." _Give up now, surrender, save yourselves, forget those foolish martyrs, for we are all doomed._

You get up and speak your piece, adding false pain to your voice. The bodies are paraded past you, and you can not help but think of the yawe branded on their shoulders. You desperately wanted that blue tattoo, but now you are not so sure. Your mother's ice has numbed your fire, and suddenly you need to know something.

You glide after your mother, as prim and proper as a princess should be, and when you catch up to her, your green eyes are calm, hiding the desperation.

"Mother, do you love me?" The question bursts from your lips, as it did so many years ago when she rocked you to sleep, crooning soft nothings in her musical voice. You need to know that your mother loves, that she, under her layer of cold ice, loves you, her daughter.

The Elf Queen turns to face you, no expression on her face, so like yours. "A future queen does not concern herself with such things." She says flatly. "There is no love, only judgment." She walks away and you find yourself aching, broken, numbed, because she doesn't love you, she hasn't, since she became queen. Your legs tremble and you slip to the ground, tears frozen in your eyes, for you cannot cry, you are the perfect princess. You remain silent for several long moments.

"Yes, Mother." You say quietly. Your heart freezes, love dies. That will be you from now on, quiet ice, forever frozen and silent.

(But on the inside you want to cry, to scream, to beg _Please don't leave me _to her, your mother, who should love you more than anyone else. She walks away, and you find yourself facing eternity alone. _Please come back, Mother, I don't want to be alone_)

* * *

II: Break

"_Give me all your secrets, little elf."_

His harsh words are accompanied by the sting of something sharp; your blood slips out to pool on the floor.

"Never." You whisper through cracked lips. You will never surrender, never betray the trust of your people, but you are weakening, breaking.

He, the Shade, assaults your mind again, and you see Glenwing and Faolin die, and you scream in torment. Faolin, Faolin. Your heart cries out for him, and the Shade cackles madly.

"Your secrets, elf!" He howls, his hands crushing your wrists. You struggle, but he has your hands pinned and your head slammed against the wall. In one hand he hold a burning, sizzling iron, and you want to vanish. He holds the iron above your eye, ready to scar your face forever.

"Would your lover love you if you weren't pretty?" He sneers, wicked glee on his face. "Since you refuse to tell…"

Heat touched your forehead and the world dissolves into white lighting strikes of pain. You can't breath for screaming, your face is on fire…

And you shatter. Your shields, so strong and firm, crumble. You are dimly aware of _him_ invading your mind, tearing your secrets from you, the location of the egg, the way into Du Weldenvarden, the location of the rebellion, all of it is stripped away from you. The Empire has won, you know, and you mourn, tears sliding down your burnt face.

Faolin would not love you now, a traitor with burn scars and a broken spirit. The Shade leaves you, laughing mockingly, and you huddle up against the wall, your green eyes dull. The light has gone out, love torn away, and you realize you have broken.

(Not only broken, but shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, your heart killed by the fiery iron. You were slated for execution, but the Shade lets you live, for there is no reason to execute a broken doll)

* * *

III: Queen

"_I name you Arya Drottning, Queen on the Elves."_

It has been a long time since you have felt anything at all, frozen in your royal ice as you are, but as you gaze upon this man- no, child, really, he can't be more than eighteen- something, some long- forgotten emotion, stirs in your cold heart. It is a vague feeling, a shadow of something you cannot name. You decide to hate this boy for it, in your cold, distant way. Such inner emotions do not befit the Elf Queen.

"I'm Eragon Shadeslayer, Drottning." He says, his voice warm and comforting. Involuntary shivers course down your spine. Your dislike for this child grows. How dare he bring these new, unwelcome, unqueenly feelings with him into your domain? You are the sovereign here, not him and his emotions.

"Welcome to Ellesmera." Through some miracle you manage to keep your voice cool. He blinks at you with wide brown eyes and your heart flutters madly. Damn heart. His very look sends you into shivers of delight and anticipation.

You go through all the formal introductions, all the pleasantries your customs dictate. A marvelous feast is thrown in this boy's honor, his and his dragon's. You sit at one end of the table, young Eragon at the other, He keeps glancing at you, shooting you what he believes to be subtle, longing looks. Every time his warm brown eyes meet yours he looks away, a faint blush on his tan cheeks. The dwarf he traveled with muttered something, causing the young Rider to flame crimson. His Saphira rumbles a dragon laugh, her sapphire tail twitching. Their camaraderie sparks jealous envy in your heart. When was the last time you had a friend?

_Faolin._ The traitorous voice inside your mind whispers. You push it down, determined to forget. Faolin abandoned you to serve the Varden; you must not think of him. It hurts to much.

To your quiet horror, you learn that Eragon plans to stay for months and months, learning from Oromis. Your mind protests this quite loudly, but your heart sings out with joy. You resolve to hide from him. Somewhere in the back of your mind you laugh self- mockingly. A queen hiding from a peasant in her own kingdom. Ironic.

Slowly the months pass, with Eragon becoming more and more powerful and you avoiding him at every opportunity. You catch glimpses of him, training, fighting, growing, But these far-off snatches of him do nothing to soothe your curiosity; instead you find yourself hungrily devouring every scrap information you can get about this strange man- child who has the audacity to stir up painful emotions in your heart. Everything you learn about him seems to find a groove in your mind, neatly fitting and blending with your other memories as if they belong there, as if your mind had been waiting for these scraps of knowledge. In the safe cradle of your thoughts the strange feelings grow and multiply, filling your waking dreams with hazy sun- kissed imaginings. Finally, on the eve of the Agaeti Blodhren, the young Eragon comes to find you.

"Have you been avoiding me?" He asks, he lovely warm brown eyes gazing into yours curiously. You are keenly aware of everything, his strong hands, his gentle voice, so soft and tempting-

No. Best not go there.

"What makes you think that?" You ask, voice neutral and hands tucked under your desk to hide their frantic, excited trembling.

"You've been watching me." He says simply. "Saphira sees you around a lot."

"Ah." Is all you can say. You don't trust yourself, for you are lost in his gaze, his sweet brown eyes, so trusting, naïve, even. He looks like a man, but he is still a boy at heart, you can see it, and you wonder how this mere _child_ can save Alagaesia.

"Why?"

You pause, a pregnant, heavy silence that weighs upon the both of you, the Queen and the Rider, the leaders, however unwillingly, of the free world, and you desperately want to say _Because I love you_ but you can't, because you don't remember what love is, it has been so _long _and you are so very frightened, like a child whose father and mother both died in battle, and you discover you are Queen. In the very back of your mind, the part of you that stays cold always, you wonder where all these feelings came from, but you know the answer. From him, from Eragon.

"I can't." You tell him. You can't, really, can't open up, reveal your feelings, your (possible) love and your (very real) fears, can't tell him _why_ you watch and hide from him. He wouldn't understand.

He blinks, warm brown threatening to engulf you. "Why?" He repeats. Somehow his question has changed from _Why are you avoiding me? _to _Why can't you love me? _

"I am a queen." Is all you can say, all you could ever say, even when Faolin begged you to go with him, to escape your duties as Queen, to live, to love.

His brow furrows thoughtfully, and you can see why Oromis likes him. He is so sweet, innocent, child- like, in a sense, and yet thoughtful and intelligent. A sudden inspiration dawns on his face and your heart flutters faster, eagerly awaiting the culmination of your hazy fantasy- premonitions, what you ache for but dare not hope to ever have.

"You are a queen," he says slowly, "and I am a Rider."

"Yes."

He grins, wild, radiant, and you find that your resistance is swept away, and for the first time in years you are free from your duties as Elf Queen.

"You can't and I can't," he continued almost slyly, like a child given permission to play with his father's sword. You find yourself tensing expectantly, all conservative thoughts abandoned in your wild shaking. The Unknown Feeling in your heart sings out, for it has seen the next four words.

"But together we _can_." His voice and yours blend, like your minds, and instantly the Queen and the Rider are forgotten.

(An answer to your earlier question comes in the dawn light the next day, the day of the Blood-Oath Celebration. Love will save Alagaesia, and this child- man, really- has all the love to give)

* * *

IV: Fairytale

"_He will join Galbatorix to protect you."_

You reel under the weight of their words, of Nasuada's and Murtagh's and the elves'. They claim to have seen it in their dreams, premonitions of terrible slaughter and pain. They tell you that your Eragon, the first free Rider in a century, the defender of the elves and the Varden and freedom itself will fall, will embrace the King's black magic and destroy the world.

You cannot believe it. No, you refuse to believe it. He is your Eragon, gentle, kind, and loving. He could never do the things they have described. He would not slaughter whole cities of people and have Roran executed, he would not cause so much pain to everyone he cared about. He wouldn't do it to you.

"You're lying!" You cry, all composure gone, forgotten. That cannot be true, it _isn't _true. Eragon is good, not evil. He would never join Galbatorix.

So they showed you. Nasuada gave you images of cities in flames, people fleeing, screaming, begging for mercy while a blue dragon and Rider float above the fire, drunk from killing. The elves showed you more flaming cities, dying masses, and Roran'ss execution, as he glared at Eragon and screamed 'How could you?".

Lies! They are all lies. Eragon is your fairytale prince, your Knight in Shining Armor. He cannot turn, cannot be the villain. He is a hero.

The worst part is that they want your help. They want you to betray him, to lure him into a trap where he can be killed. He trusts you, they say, he will never doubt you, suspect you, the only woman he has ever loved, the mother of his _child_. Your hand goes to your belly as they ask you these things, as they ask you to kill your soon-to-be husband.

"No." You will not play a part in the murder of your Eragon. He is yours, good and pure, not a monster. You seek out Murtagh. He knows Eragon almost as well as you do, surely he wouldn't dream of killing his own brother.

"Why do they think this will happen?" You plead, terrified. What could make your Eragoon embrace the King's power?

Murtagh looks at you, older than you have ever seen him. "He is afraid for you." He whispers, his blue eyes dull with agony. He shows you terrible pictures, you writing on the ground, dying as an enemy strikes you down, screaming, pleading, one hand on your belly, shielding your child.

"He refuses to lose you."

You shake your head, trying to ward off the fear and pain that creeps its way into your heart. "No. e wouldn't. He's stronger than that, he would never turn, never betray us. He _loves_ me…" Your voice breaks and crystal tears slip down your face.

"That love will destroy him." Murtagh says so quietly you almost miss it. "And you. And me. And you child."

Your heart freezes. No. No, he's lying, trying to scare you. Not your child. Not _his_ child. Eragon would never harm his child. But the damage has been done.

You do not go to Eragon that night. Instead you stay outside, in the cold, wrapped in in pain and fear and misery. The last image Murtagh showed you remains burned in your mind's eye. A heartless Eragon, a shell of Eragon, not your Eragon at all, but a man with his face and his voice and his eyes, is standing on a battlefield, bloodstained and vicious. Below him a boy with Eragon's face but your eyes screams in torment. He is dying and Eragon is hurting him.

"_Father, PLEASE!."_

But all is silent as your son dies and his father watches dispassionately from above. Eragon kills your child, and that knowledge is to much to bear. You will protect your son.

In the morning you go to the elves and Murtagh and Nasuada. You tell them where to set the trap, where Eragon will be. They all assure you that it is for the best, that Eragon will spend years in lonely agony and that it is better to let him die a hero than a hated monster, but you want to scream and cry. He is your perfect prince, your private fairytale. Aren't those supposed to have a happy ending?

You call Eragon, hiding your true thoughts. He comes to you eagerly, happy to be with you and his unborn child, away from war and fighting and suffering.

"Come walk with me." You say, knowing where this walk will end. He nods, warm eyes twinkling in his tanned face. His warm hand intertwines with your own, squeezing your smaller hand comfortingly. He laughs and agrees, happy just to be with you, to be near you.

The long walk begins, and you cannot help but feel like a traitor. He talks to you, but you don't really hear his words. How could you? You are leading him to death, to his death, and he is smiling, following after you like a faithful dog.

The irony makes you want to cry.

Finally you approach the place where the trap has been laid with magic and steel. You falter, only for a moment, a hand on your belly. Your heart is ripping itself into little pieces,, begging you to shout out a warning. Eragon pauses too, but only in thoughtful contemplation.

"What do you think of Brom?"

The question takes you by surprise. "What?"

"Our child." He grins at you, once more the perfect prince you remember and love. "If it's a boy, what do you think of Brom?"

You almost freeze, agony tearing you apart. "It's perfect." You whisper. One more step. Your fairytale ending, the happily ever after, al of it will go up in smoke. But you cannot open your mouth to warn Eragon as you stop and he keeps moving forward. All you can see is Brom screaming for his father as he dies, and it is enough for you to kill your heart and let your Eragon step into the trap.

You manage to hold one last glimpse of him, his eyes closed in blissful happiness, a smile of his face. That is how you will remember him. In your mind his warm eyes do not open again, thrown wide with pain and betrayal. His face does not twist in agony as multiple spells severe his connection to magic and multiple swords pierce his flesh. Blood does not splatter across your face and his body does nt fall with a final thump, cut down by his friends, betrayed by his future wife. Saphira does not scream in pain from far up in the clouds and plummet to the ground, crying like a lost child.

There is only peace and serenity, sunlight and happiness. A fairytale ending.

"It is better this way." Nasuada encourages. "We'll blame this on the Empire. He has died a hero."

A hero, just like the stories you remember from your childhood. A perfect ending to a perfect story. Happily ever after.

(Your son is born three months later in a land of peace, carrying the legacy of his father, who is revered as a great hero. You name him Brom, for your broken fairytale, for the shattered promises and tattered hearts, and fear so great that destroyed love, a fairytale)

* * *

V: Changed

"_I am Saphira, and you are my Rider."_

You and Saphira ride high above the land, tired from the battle and eager to rest. The Spine is to your left, the Anora River winds below you. In the year since Saphira hatched for you, you have never been so close to Du Weldenvarden, your home. Instead of flying amongst the leafy halls, you urge Saphira to set down on the outskirts of a little town called Carvahall, hidden, safe.

_Something is bothering you, little one._ Saphira hums, worried.

_It's nothing. Something here just feels… _right_. _You assure your partner. Your words are true; something familiar and overwhelmingly _right_ about this place that sets you at ease, and you don't know why. Within moments a bluish fire crackles in front of you as you munch n bread, utterly at peace. You don't even notice the rustles as a being stumbles out into the light.

"Whoa." He is a farm boy, by the looks of him, with shaggy brown hair and wide brown eyes. Saphira growls thinly and is eyes widen even more. He reels back, shocked. "A dragon."

"Yes." _Saphira, leave him be. He means no harm. _You don't know what makes you say it, but you know its true. This boy is no danger to you or Saphira. In fact, the calm and rightness seems to be coming from him, which is odd.

"I am Arya Shadeslayer." You introduce yourself, still not understanding why. "this is Saphira."

"It's an honor to meet you." The boy says humbly. He introduces himself as Eragon, and before you know it, the pair of you are talking like old friends. You feel at ease with this farm boy, safe from war and hurting. Saphira likes him too.

"Ah, no!" He cries when the sun rises. "My uncle's gonna be mad." He leaps to his feet. "I have to go." He apologizes. "It was nice meeting you!" Then he takes off, leaving you disappointed and a little sad. He made you feel complete.

You and Saphira leave the village of Carvahall before the sun rises any higher, abandoning Eragon and a part of yourself that may never return, at least, not until years later when a grown captain in the Varden meets you, a smile on his face, and introduces himself as the only survivor in the village called Carvahall. And once again, you are complete.

(Sometimes as you look at him you see a shadow, a man with elvish features and a blue dragon at his side, so familiar, yet so different, and you wonder how the world changes)

* * *

I: Right

"_Arya, will you marry me?"_

His warm, loving eyes meet yours as he asks the question, and several answers run through your mind.

_No, elves don't really marry. _

_No, my mother won't approve._

_No, I have a duty to my people._

_No, it will give you a weakness._

Out of all these answers, your lips find a different one. "Yes, Eragon, yes."

_Yes, I love you._

_Yes, I need you._

_Yes, I want to be with you forever._

In the end, it is only three words that can speak for your heart. "I love you." You do not care that elves don't marry, nor that your mother won't approve, nor that you have a duty, nor that Galbatorix can use your marriage as a weakness. You love him, you need him, you long to be with him forever. So you say the only thing you can.

"Yes."

(That word changes the world, for it gives a man a reason to fight, to protect, defend, and love, and there, in his arms, his lipsover yours in a vow of eternal love, it feels _right_)

* * *

**Ah, complete. So, I is Arya as a princess, forbidden to join the Varden. Very angsty and most fun to write. II is Durza getting secrets from Ayra. I don't really care for this bit, but eh, nothing's perfect. III is one of my favorite things I've written. Its Arya as the Ice Queen, struggling with love. The ending can be... interpreted... however you wish. IV is also one of my favs. Its Arya setting up Eragon because of what he might become. V is a classic Sapphy hatch for Arya thing,** **and I is the acceptance of marriage. Clear?**

**Alrighty, then! Please leave a review after the beep (just imagine one) and feel free to suggest ideas for future FTTNHs!!**

**~WSS**


	3. Saphira

**Alright, here I am!!! I finished this in the car yesterday and wanted to post it. Don't worry, I'm still working on Eldunari, but my damn Elizabeth I project is screwing with my brain and schedule. So I'll try and update on Saturday, but... who knows?**

**Anyway, this is from Saphira's POV. There is so much angst in here I should be arrested. Seriously. Yeah. So, thanks for the reviews, enjoy, and duckhunter33, please don't break my legs. Thanks.**

**Ah, also, the sweet and amazing Thunderhowl wrote a drabble-y thingie based off this!! It's called "Scientia" and it'ss really cool!! Please go read it and leave your support!!**

**Disclaimer- This is CP's sandbox, and I am but a servant in his castle. **

* * *

I: Wrong

"_Eragon, get that stone away from Roran. He's working."_

You can feel him nearby, the one who stirred sparks in your tiny heart when his warm-comforting-perfect hand caressed the smooth shell of your current prison. You feel him _there_, on the outside, and the urge to see him is so overwhelming that you squirm, eager to break out of your captivity-shell-home.

Your call out, impatient to meet him, to touch him, to be with him, and your stirrings increase, pushing keenly against the shell, your small, spiked tail prodding and tiny claws scrabbling. Again you squeak, calling out to the one who delicately stroked your shell, who awakened you after a century of sleep-dark-loneliness.

Outside someone is moving, coming close to you, and you call out in joy. You will see him soon. The shell that has housed you for one hundred years cracks under the force of your eagerness, and finally, finally, you are free.

There is a human standing before you, a young-hatchling-not-grown human, with sparkling brown eyes and wonderment etched on his features. You skitter into the pale-silver-cool moonlight, eyeing him. Is he the One?

You edge closer, curious. His hand reaches for you small head, and he touches you. Instantly, lightning-fire-hot-pain tears through you, the welding of two souls-minds-hearts. The boy-human collapses to the floor, overcome. You remain rigid, shaking ever so slightly. _He is not the One._ You throw back your head and lament, because you've been bonded to the wrong partner.

(And you realize, in your young-scared-shocked mind, that it is so utterly wrong that you cannot bring yourself to touch the mind of this imposter, this hatchling who dared to tie himself to you. You will die rather than be tethered to the imposter, and you really don't care if he dies in the process)

* * *

II: Protect

"_Don't kill Eragon. I'll do anything."_

How you regret those words now, a century later, when you look out with your Eragon at the anthill-prison-black-city-Uru' baen with cold eyes, observing the fear of the humans. And they should fear you both, two powerful beings with no conscience, no heart, and cold-cruel-dark eyes.

You have everything you ever wanted; the partner-of-your-mind-and-heart is safe, protected. There is peace, and you needn't fear for your Eragon any longer. There is no war, only hunting and flying time. T is almost like being a hatchling again, only you and your Eragon. You have a devoted mate and the world is populated with your offspring, who have in turn produced offspring, until dragons once again roamed Alagaesia. The Riders are back, peace flourishes.

In your cynical-practical-tired mind, you tell yourself that it was worth it, that it was worth swearing yourself to Galbatorix and becoming his slave, worth dragging your beloved Eragon into the darkness with you. Your master calls and you turn to leave with Eragon, your eyes blank-dark-murderous and gleaming. It is time to go.

(And as you fight later in a field dyed red with the blood of innocents, you try and convince yourself that it was worth it. But as you look at the partner-of-your-soul, his eyes alight with wickedness and bloodlust, you know it was not worth it, and you killed an innocent heart, and it destroys you)

* * *

III: Loss

"_I am not Saphira without you."_

Fear clutches at your heart as your little one struggles, back-forth-back-forth with the King. You snarl at black-dark-huge-evil-Shruikan, for he is blocking you, keeping you from your Eragon. It hurts to be unable to help him, and you roar in fury and frustration. Pain and fear drives your claws and fangs, biting, slashing,, snarling at the massive monster-not-dragon in front of you. He roars as you rip his hide, spilling blood onto the stones of the castle.

_Move_! You snarl, all the rage of your wild-fierce-proud ancestors humming in you blood. Fire spills from your jaws, howling its own fury, so much like your own. Flames lick Shruikan's hide and he screams in agony. You lunge past, desperate to get to your Eragon, but thorn-pain-sharp-claws hook into your flesh, holding you back.

_No! _You cry, because you know what the egg-breaker-traitor wants to do. He wants to kill your Eragon and use you to rebuild the Riders. He won't let you die in the process, his magics will prevent that.

Smiling wickedly, the King raises his black-night-dark-bloody blade over your Eragon, magic fueling the coming blow, magic that will rip your Eragon in half.

_No!_ You roar again, and then Shruikan lets go, tossed away, screeching in pain, and you propel yourself forward, claws out, curling protectively around your Eragon, sweeping the egg-breaker-traitor aside with a flick of your tail.

_S-saphira…_ Your Eragon moans, agony in his familiar face.

_What? _you ask, gently curling around him, for the King is dead and his dragon defeated. It is then that you feel the burning-spliting-bleeding in the hollow where your throat meets your chest, and then you realize that you are in trouble. The King's black blade is embedded in your scales, and neither you nor Eragon has the strength to remove it.

_I'm sorry, little one_. Is all you can say, because your blood is spilling out at an alarming rate and you can't seem to think clearly. You are sorry, sorry for getting hurt, for bleeding all over the ground, for dooming your life-partner to such a terrible existence, because he is strong, like his father, and he will _survive_ what you will not.

_Don't be sorry_. The partner-of-your-mind-and-heart murmurs, mourning already. His hands find your muzzle and cradle your face, as gentle as they were the night you hatched for him. Your blue eyes close and open, flickering as the light dims-dies-vanishes as your strength bleeds out onto the floor. If he was not already at his limit your Eragon would try to save you, you know, and even now he is chanting in the ancient language, struggling to mend the horrendous wound.

It comforts you, and you nuzzle his face for the last time, and then the fire goes out.

(Years later, you stand at the entrance to the afterlife, eager and giddy as a young-foolish-hatchling. It has been a long time, and finally you see him, the partner-of-your-soul, grumpy and aged, but smiling, and then his hands are on your face, and you nuzzle him again, and he is young, and you are finally happy)

* * *

IV: Mother

"_As the last female dragon in existence, you must do your duty."_

Shruikan's mocking words fill your mind as you gaze forlornly at the two young hatchlings, one deep-dark-midnight-black and the other pure-snow-moon-white. They are training with their Riders, bending easily under the King's command, for it is all they have ever known.

It wounds you that you can only watch from a distance. You know that if you were to get closer, the egg-breaker-traitor and his dragon would only capture you again, and then hurt like last time, until Eragon could come and get you. He does not understand why you watch these two young-strong-beautiful dragonlings, because he is not a father yet, and he does not understand a parent's need to watch their young.

And even though these two are the offspring of monster-traitor-twisted-Shruikan, you are attached to them, and you feel for them. In your mid they are perfect, so perfect that you are willing to go to them, to lie down beside them and simply be, because they are yours, and they need you. They need love and nurturing, and they will not get that from their father.

_Saphira? _Your Eragon's voice is soft-sad-gentle, and you know why. _It's time to leave. _

With a heavy heart you agree, and you cast one last, longing look back at them, your children, who will be raised to hate you, the one that got away.

_Let's go, Eragon._ You murmur, your words heavy with regret-sorrow-grief, because you do not know why you are drawn to the two hatchlings below, in the city, but you know they need you. You fly away, into the darkening sky, and do not look back.

(It is only at the end, when the wicked King and his monster lie dead, and you and the partner-of-your-heart are tired and exhausted, and Thorn and his Murtagh are tired and exhausted, and your beautiful children are tired and exhausted, but victorious, and they curl up to your body, that you realize that it was you who needed them)

* * *

V: Strange

"_I met a boy in the woods today, and for a moment, I felt like I knew him."_

You blink at your Arya's words. Met a boy? But how could she know any human from around here? Neither of you have been this far north before, unless you were in the elf-magic-forest. And humans were not allowed in Du Weldenvarden, the traitorous things. Humans are bad, and Arya knows it.

_You should not be wandering about with humans._ You say sternly. Your Arya is usually very sensible, but for some reason she seems odd, almost breathless. _Is it your bleeding time? _You ask, trying to discern your Rider's strange behavior.

_W-what? No, of course not. _Your Arya snaps, irritation-embarrassment-contentment all in her voice. You want to growl thinly. What did the human-meat-food-boy do to her? Drug her?

But you do not get to ask that question, because she is gone, her hair floating behind her. Growling unhappily you curl up and wait, your thorn-sharp-white-talons clicking against the ground. Soon you hear the dry-bracken-rustle of feet on leaves, and then your Arya walks into view, a human boy at her side.\

He has wide brown eyes and a sweet expression, and you too feel like you know him. Disconcerted, you spend the day carefully not- answering his many questions, and you breathe a sigh of relief when this good-not-bad-familiar human leaves. There is something about him, his manner, his face, they way he seems to exist, happy and content, that makes you ache for something else, for another life.

But these thoughts to not befit a dragoness, so you discard them, and in the morning you leave before the strange boy can come to say goodbye.

(Neither you nor your Arya mention the previous night's strange dreams, the visions of a young man, strong, with elfish features and warm brown eyes, nor of battles fought and children born, of a history and a tale that never was, nor ever will be)

* * *

I: Dance

"_You two are the last of your race, the last free dragons. Deal with it."_

With something akin to disdain, you eye the red-shrike-dragon standing across from you, his legs planted in defiance. He is too young, too proud, too irritating. You will never mate with him, never.

_Why are you still here? _He snaps. You remember that you are indeed in his cave, his territory, and he will defend it will tooth-claw-fire. And oddly, this prospect excites you.

_Who knows? _You reply cryptically, your blue eyes fixed on his crimson. Tension crackles from him like lighting-flame-heat, ready to lash out and burst into glorious lights. You feel something primitive and wild uncurling in your blood, yawning and baring its teeth. Excitement courses through your veins and sings in your blood. There is an edge in the air, sharp as a fang-talon-sword. You both can feel it.

He turns to watch you as you prowl further into his cave, his body shifting to yours. _Why? _He asks, but the snap is gone. You can hear his strong heart thundering in his chest, pumping blood through his sparkling-ruby-gem body.

_Who knows? _You repeat, his warm, musky, most definitely _male_ scent hitting your nose. _Perhaps I want to stay. _

_Do you? _He asks, tilting his head to the side. _Or do you want to be with your Rider and his new hatchling? _

You stop moving and mirror his spread-limbed-defense stance. _Maybe I want hatchlings of my own. _You challenge, not really conscious of forming the thought.

For a moment, his crimson face twists into the most ridiculous expression a dragon has ever worn. And then he throws back his head and bugles in triumph and you dance past him and leap into the sky, trumpeting your own happiness. Neither of you were aware of it until this moment, but you realize that hatchlings would be very, very nice. Behind you he leaps out as well crimson-wide-sail-wings flaring and beating powerfully after you.

(You lead him up and down, all throughout the Spine, and then the stunning display ends in the way all courtship dances do, with a burst of two- colored fire and him catching up to you)

* * *

**There we go.... eh, I only really like II: Protect and I: Dance. IV is alright, but.... different. And I and III are so angsty that it almost hurts.... gah. Oh well.**

**So, I is Saphira wanting to hatch for Roran but getting Eragon instead. II is her swearing loyalty to Galbatorix to protect him. III is her dying to protect him. IV is Saphira having Shruikan's kids by force. V is Saphira as Arya's dragon and meeting Eragon. And I is Thorn and Saphira goodness, ending in cute little dragon babies populating Alagaesia. **

**So, please R&R, I'm always open to suggestions. Up next is either Roran or Murty, whichever I feel like finishing. **

**Ciao, and don't forget to read Scientia!!**

**~WSS**


	4. Roran

**Hey, friends. Alright, before anyone pounces on me with an intent to maim, Chapter 19 of Eldunari is with my betas/plot advisors, and will be updated soon. So, please, no author- maiming!!**

**That aside, here's the next installement in Unopened Doors!! It's from Roran's POV, and it doesn't have too much angst.... I think. I'm particularly fond of the ending and IV. Read, review, and have fun!!!**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Inheritance. All characters belong to Christopher Paoloni, who is not me. And duckhunter33, I have a vicious (pillow-guarding) guard dog, who will kill (by licking) you. So, you ae warned! No bone breaking!!**

* * *

I: Game

"_Can I play with you?"_

You stare at her, not quite sure if you heard her right. She, a _girl_, just asked to play with you and the other village boys, wrestling in the mud?

"What?"

The Girl sighs patiently. "Can I play with you?" She repeats, slowly and clearly, as though she is talking to someone stupid.

The other boys stop wrestling, glaring daggers at the Girl who dared to intrude upon their games. Al of them were muddy and filthy, and the Girl was clean, her neat dress spotless and her shiny red hair unruffled.

"Uh…" You try to say something, but your throat catches, and you realize how pretty the Girl is, with her shiny hair and neat dress, her eyes sparkling, her skin glowing in the light. Beautiful.

The other boys make a sound, grumbling a warning. The Girl isn't welcome. They are your friends, you think, even if they mock your tattered clothes and dirty face. You want to be part of them.

"No!" You yell. "You're a _girl_, and girls can't play!"

The other boys yell in agreement, voicing their approval.

The Girl's face darkens, her eyes flash fire. "What?" She screeches, and then leaps at you, knocking you into the mud.

Yelping, you struggle and roll over with her, splattering her nice dress with mud. The other boys are yelling and cheering, watch9ng you wrestle the Girl. You feel nails scrape your arms and teeth embed themselves in your ear. Howling, you keep rolling, coating yourself in mud.

"Roran!" Your father is suddenly there, holding you by the ear. "Look at this mess!" He shakes you firmly, but you keeping glaring at the girl, who is also drenched in mud. "You apologize to Miss Katrina."

You suck in air, gathering all the force in your ten- year- old lungs. "Girls can't play!"

(A decade later, on your wedding bed, you are completely surprised when your new wife drops a handful of mud on your face and taunts you, challenging you to a rematch. Which you win, of course, but you will never tell her that.)

* * *

II: Sacrifice

"_Give us the one called Roran and we will leave you in peace."_

You stand, proud despite your fear, in front of the villagers, the soldiers, and the cowled demons who demand your blood.

"Here I am." The words do not shake, you notice. They do not betray you.

"You surrender so easily, cousssin of Eragon?" One of the hooded creature's hisses. In the back of your mind, you wonder how these monsters know Eragon. You also know that it does not matter, because you know what the strangers will do to you.

"Spare the village." You demand. "And I will go with you without a fight."

"Assss you wissssh, young one. You sssshall serve our massster well, yesss?" The creature gestures at several soldiers, and they approach you with chains. You stand still and allow them to bind you, the metal ice against your skin. A small army of glittering beetle- men surrounds you, the hooded creatures at the helm. The people of Carvahall are silent, seeing your stiff back, the quiet pride in your stance. They recognize your sacrifice, and admire your bravery.

And you are marched away.

(It is only at night, locked in a cell, that you allow your fear to show. You are your father's son, after all, and the savage monsters will get no pleasure from you.)

* * *

III: Selfish

"_You are responsible for your own father's death!"_

You look at your cousin, so battle scarred and tired, the villagers of Carvahall behind him. You find yourself faintly surprised to see Eragon here, with the Varden, so far from home. He was always softer than yourself, balking at killing even a deer. How odd to find him here, bearing the name "Stronghammer" and leading all the villagers, even Sloan the butcher.

"I didn't mean too." You say sadly, trying to get your cousin to understand. "I didn't know that the Empire would come after me."

Eragon snorts in disbelief. "You hatch a dragon and expect the Empire to leave you alone? Come, _cousin_, Uncle taught you better than that."

You flinch, seeing the truth in his bitter words.

"And then you left him on his deathbed!" Eragon snaps, his voice growing louder. "On the words of a crazy storyteller, without even laying your own father to rest!"

You flinch again, but the Rider pride is coming to your rescue. "If I had stayed, the entire village would have been in danger. It was better to leave and hunt down the Ra' zac."

"And let them half- kill you? I have heard the stories, Roran. Brom died for you, you know. That's another person who's been killed because you're too selfish."

"I gave up my _home_, Stronghammer!" You snarl, magic shimmering at your fingertips. "I gave up the woman I love, my family, and my future. I gave it all so that I-"

"Could be remembered as a hero?" The bitter, mocking edge in Eragon's voice pierces through your pride, striking at your heart. "Could have songs sung about you, stories whispered reverently? We all know that Dragon Riders are heroes, Roran. I just thought that heroes were selfless. You got your father and an old man killed, and even now hundreds of young men leave their homes to march alongside you, and they are captured and executed in town squares. They are dying for _you_, and you won't lift a finger to help them." Eragon's brown eyes are cold, fierce. "I am wanted by the Empire because of _you!_ Carvahall is naught but ashes now because of _you!_ Villagers have died because you had to hatch a dragon and bring doom upon the entire village! _I have become a murderer because of you!_"

"I'm sorry." You whisper, the truth biting at your heart, tearing open raw, painful wounds.

"Goodbye, _Shadeslayer_." Eragon spits, turning on his heel, the villagers falling in step behind him. You see a flash of red hair moving to his side, arms wrapping around your cousin's shoulders, a kiss. _Katrina_. And the one person you hoped would understand walked away.

_Come, little one._ Your Marian soothes. _You cannot expect him to understand your burden. _

_No, I suppose not. _You reply, walking back to Ajihod with your hand on her sapphire shoulder. _But he's right. I'm _selfish.

(It is then that you resolve to never let another person die for you again.)

* * *

IV: Distortion

"_You were supposed to be the hero!"_

A cry tears itself from your lips, all the weight of the world carried within it. You look across the crowded square, to the familiar brown eyes, so cold and hard, chips of ice in the sweltering heat.

A smile, a gruesome, broken smile, plays across your cousinbrotherbestfriend's face. At this distance, you cannot hear his reply due to the roar of the crowd, but you hear it in your mind anyway.

_I know_.

Through the heat- rippled distortion, you see his eyes, his face, his hand, raising in a farewell salute, and the icy brown softening for a fraction of a second.

"No!" You howl, lunging against your bonds, struggling, cursing yourself and Eragon and Galbatorix, grieving for Katrina and her child, _your _child, and you see a glint of silver, hear a rush of wind, and one last time you gaze into your cousin's eyes, so very very cold…..

(And then, nothing.)

* * *

V: Late

"_Katrina! Katrina, please…"_

Your broken cries fall upon deaf ears, upon beautiful, broken , deaf ears. Red hair is splayed in a fiery fan about her face, a splash of color on the gray stone wall. Her eyes are closed, no breath escapes her body. Your knees tremble, and like a wounded animal, you keen. She is dead, your light, your reason for existence.

With trembling hands you lift her light body, your flesh warm against the frozen pale skin. Her face is marred with gashes, her hands tattered stumps of broken skin and dried blood. They tortured her. The Ra' zac tortured your Katrina, and then they killed her.

Eragon is there, murmuring sorrowful apologies, but you don't here them. Through tear- blurred eyes you can see his elfish face crinkled in worry, but you don't care. Katrina is dead. Why hasn't the world stopped, frozen? The center of your life is gone, a gaping hole in her place, and still life goes on?

Another cry bubbles from your throat, a rasping, keening, broken sound.

You were too late, too late to save her, to kill the Ra' zac and hold her, speak to her one last time. Memories of Garrow, your father, reverberate in your bleeding mind. You saw him for the last time when you left, his grizzled face sad but proud, his hand pressing coins into yours. And then he was dead, murdered, gone. You were too late then, too.

A third howl tears itself from your throat, this one echoing and clanging and ripping from you so that it is soon mixed with blood as the inside of your throat bleeds. _Katrina_

Behind you, between you and Eragon, you hear a rustle, a clicking, and then your hammer meets flesh, and the Ra' zac drops, screaming. Another strike has the creature gasping in pleading gurgles, begging. A third strike, and your hammer is wet with blood. Still carrying Katrina, you move on.

(When the war finally ends, when the Empire falls, you go back to her grave.

"I've missed you, my love.

And then it ends.)

* * *

I: Legend

"_Grandfather, tell me a story."_

A smile graces your wrinkled lips as you look down at your young grandson. Young Orik is everything his father Garrow is not; loud, brash, adventurous.

"Of course, little one." You say kindly, rocking back in your chair, enjoying the view your farm has to offer. The corn is almost ready for harvest, you observe. Eragon and Arya will arrive with their flock in tow, ready to share a family reunion. Murtagh and Nasuada might visit as well, bringing their odd combination of fire and wit. You smile again. You are old now, and you don't have many winters left. But you are happy, with your children and their children, and Katrina. Carvahall has been rebuilt, the Dragon Riders roam again.

You rock thoughtfully, as if trying to decide which story to tell. Your eyes light up as you find the perfect tale to tell. It is a perfect tale to tell, full of adventure, villains, heroes, those in between, love, family, and friendship.

"Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a young farm boy was hunting in the Spine…"

* * *

**Hmm. Well, Parts II-V were, you guessed it, ANGST!!! Damn, I need to lighten up. Huh. Well, lets see, Part I was Roran and Katrina fighing in the mud, and then in the marital bed (;P). II is Roran giving himself to the Ra' zac in Eldest. III is Roran as the Rider (hence the Roran SHADESLAYER and Eragon STRONGHAMMER) and Eragon getting pissed off. By the way, instead of naming Saphira Saphira, he named her Marian, after his mother. IV is part of my dark!Eragon kick, where Roran is being publicly executed. I love that one, but dark!Eragon has taken over my brain. (YOUR fault, thunderhowl) V is Katrina dying in Brisingr, and Roran cracking down the middle. I is years after the events of Inheritance, where Roran is telling his grandson a story. **

**All good? Yay! Review!!!**


	5. Morzan

**Hey! Wow, um, it's been a year since I've updated this.... Er, sorry! **

**So this is probably crap, but, hey, I tried. **

**Dedicated to Sable1212, who really, really wanted a Morzan. Enjoy! (and thanks for the ideas!!)**

**Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. **

* * *

I: Gates

"_Why don't you just let me in?"_

The young man's words are as sweet as honey, his blue eyes wide and earnest. Those eyes, like Brom's, are full of curiosity. This man is harmless, you tell yourself. It wouldn't hurt to let him in…

"What's your name and rank, civilian?" You say, roughly. You have to keep up appearances, after all. You're the Gatekeeper of Ileria.

"My name," says the man. "Is Galbatorix. And I am _not_ a civilian." His face twists momentarily, his mouth going lopsided and his eyes going wild. "I am a Keeper of the Rider Law."

Almost instinctively you open the gate; the Keepers are not to be questioned. They are the highest authority below the Council, the best Riders from every city all over Alagaesia. "I'm sorry, sir." You start to say, but your dragon Ibara rumbles a warning, his nostrils flaring.

_Morzan, he's _the _Galbatorix. _

And you stop opening the gate. "Wait." You say, slowly. "You are Galbatorix Stoutheart?"

His face spasms again, and this time the madness is pronounced. You've heard of this man; he went flying into the Spine with his friends and his dragon was slain in a duel with Urgals.

He'd returned, ill, begging, and had been declared insane.

He was dangerous.

"I can't let you in. You draw yourself up to your full height, hand tightening on Zar'roc. Ibara snarls behind you. "Be gone."

The mad one steps forward, snarls, hands flickering with magic. "Let. Me. In."

You swallow. "No."

Galbatorix roars, hands raised, and you draw your sword, faster than you've ever drawn it before--!

And he lies dead before you.

You relax. You have protected your people.

(And his eyes, his Brom-like eyes, haunt you, reminding you forever of gates opened and closed, and you shudder and wonder what would have happened if you had let him in.)

* * *

II: Brothers

"_Brom?"_

Your mouth tastes like blood and ashes. Your eyes sting; the Spine is burning and the smoke chokes the air.

You roll over, gasping, and your hands are soaked with blood.

There's a deep wound in your stomach, and you think you might be dying.

_Ibara? _Your dragon makes a sound, muffled, and writhes, his eyes torn out, his scales rent open. There's death everywhere, your convoy is shattered. They came out of nowhere, the Forsworn, and everyone's dead…

"Help…" You whisper. A pair of boots appeared before your swimming vision, and with all your strength you look up.

Blue eyes, red hair.

Brom.

"B-brother…" You wheeze. He's alive, he's alive, and he'll save you… "Brother, please…"

His eyes are no longer smiling.

The tip of Undbitr comes to your neck.

"Good-bye, brother." He says, flatly, woodenly. His sword goes up—

"Wait—" You cry.

The blue blade reflects the firelight and Ibara screams, and your words, they're on the tip of your tongue—!

(Brother, why?)

* * *

III: War

"_When will this be over?"_

Brom's blue eyes are tired. He's aged a millennia in the last century, since Saphira plunged to the earth with her heart torn out.

You shrug, pondering his questions. "I don't know." You say, honestly. "Whenever Galbatorix is killed."

The red-haired man spits on the ground, rubbing his arms to block the Beors' bitter wind. "The bastard's hiding. We have to go to him."

You laugh, and it's a bitter sound. "Good luck, Brom. You'll be killed before you get within three miles of the city."

"When did you turn into such a coward?" He snarls, leaping to his feet, and his eyes are full of fire. "You used to be the first person to try and end this madness!"

You're on your feet too, angered. "Things change, Brom! I have a family now!" (A wife and a little boy, and Selena's expecting again.

"Fight for _them!_ So they can be _free!_"

You shake your head and turn away. "Charging into Uru'baen with half a plan won't solve anything! It will get me _killed_, brother! Who will look after the little ones then?"

Blue eyes smolder into your back.

"_Coward." _Brom hisses, and you hear him walk away. "No wonder Selena doesn't love you anymore."

You harden your heart and let your wife kiss away your pain.

Three weeks later, you learn that he's been killed in the square of Uru'baen. Bitterly, you realize that he's with his Saphira, now.

And then three months later your second son is born.

You note, with heartbreak, that he looks just like Brom.

(Your son will grow up in a world without war. You swear it.)

* * *

IV: Chase

"_Get back here!"_

You fly after the brat, howling with rage. He won't escape, the useless bastard. You'll kill him, this time. He's a whiny, useless brat, and you've just learned that he might not even be your son. Your bitch of a mate has been _interacting _with the gardener, and your son might not be _your _son.

"Brat!" You scream. "Come here!"

The boy flees, darting through the castle. For a little boy he's fast (or maybe you're just drunk) and he knows where his going.

"_I'll kill you!" _You're gaining, Zar'roc sings in your hands, hungry for the blood of your blood, and you can see the boy as he stumbles and falls, and his face is streaked with terror and tears.

Your disgust deepens. No son of yours will be a crybaby.

You slow, sword raised, and your son cringes into the floor—

You don't see the gardener until it's too late. The knife in his hands is sharp and steely, and it plunges into your heart, and then—!

(_Brom, you bastard…)_

* * *

V: Selena

"_I love you."_

"Will you marry me?" Your knees are shaking and you are more nervous than you've ever been, and Ibara hums in amusement behind you.

Her perfect brown eyes are wide with surprise, exhausted from her travels, and delighted. She's journeyed so far, from her home in rural Carvahall, and now she stands in Ileria, surrounded by dwarves and elves and Riders, and she found you.

You wait, tense, still smiling nervously, knees shaking, the ring, sparkling, in your hands.

Then—

"Yes." She smiles, and grasps yours hands, and the ring fits her finger perfectly. You smile, widely. You look forward to spending eternity with the most beautiful woman you've ever met.

It doesn't matter that you're over a century older than she is, because you'll never die.

(And if you have your way, she'll never die, either.)

* * *

I: Duel

"_I'll kill you!"_

Brom's eyes are wild (like yours) and his borrowed sword flashes.

You laugh at him, crazy. You can feel it, deepdeepdeep in your bones. Your dragon (without a name, a name) roars, but he's wounded, missing a leg and half his tail. He's useless, now, bleeding to death.

"You can't kill me!" You scream. "You've never been able to kill me!"

_Brom, his face stained with _her _blood, screaming "I'll kill you, I'll kill you, you killed her!" _

_He didn't kill you then, not now, not ever. _

"I'll kill you." Brom repeats, and he advances, and his swords slips beneath yours, and blood wells up on your ribs.

_Ouch._

And then you' e on your back (and it's close, it's close) and the sword is at your neck, and you see into Brom's eyes—

_Selena, _your _Selena, bwith her belly all swollen with child—_

Brom's _child—_

And then—!

(It ends.)

* * *

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	6. Murtagh

**Hey everyone! So I decided to start this up again, because I am lazy and it is intolerable. (Bad author.)**

**So we're going to start off with some Murtagh, and then we'll go from there!**

**Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. I want IC so bad. But it belongs to CP and I am not him. (Unfortunately)**

* * *

I: Eyes

_"Murtagh, my boy, come help your cousin!"_

The familiar call rouses you, waking you from your nap. You smile, stretch. The sun feels good on your stomach and the wind is just right. Today is a good day, an excellent summer day. You just returned from a hunting trip, there is plenty of food, and later you might go visit the old storyteller.

"Lazy." Roran mutteres, already hard at work, tilling the earth. You grin.

"I just spent five days out hunting for your sorry arse." You say loftily. "And you call me lazy? What were you doing, _cousin_?"

A blush colors Roran's face, and your eyes gleam brightly.

"Out wooing Miss Katrina, were we?"

"Ah, shut up and start working." Roran's face is still red, and laughing, you help him till the soil. It feels good, the movement of the earth. Clean, honest. Farming is good work, and it's all you've ever wanted to do.

Later that day, you and your love struck cousin walk into tow and you pass a clear puddle of water, left over from the heavy rains a few days ago. Roran's hair is brown, slightly curly. His nose, like yours, is strong, his face defined. And his eyes are brown.

Yours are blue.

For a moment, a heartbeat, you wonder why, but then you shrug, move on. Lots of people have blue eyes. It's not uncommon.

(But no one in your family has them, and you can't help but wonder.)

* * *

II: Love

_"Murtagh, would you like to accompany me into the tunnels?"_

You know that you should go with Ajihod, really, you do. It would further prove how loyal you are, how willing you are to serve the Varden. You should go. Eragon would want you to.

But he's on the other side of the city, presumably talking with Arya, and since you are not a magician, you can't talk to him.

Ajihod is waiting patiently for your answer, dark eyes hooded, and you struggle to make your decision. The leader of the Varden in waiting.

But so is his daughter.

"I am sorry, sir. I have already made plans." Your stiff, formal speech shows again as you fall into the habits of court, the ones that Tornac drilled into you thick skull until you were fit for noble company. (She is noble company. You hope to the gods that you won't forget anything.)

"Already have plans?" A black eyebrow rises, half exasperated, half amused, because he _knows_, the bastard. "Very well. I will call on you another time."

"I look forward to it." You bow and slide past the man, turning through the maze of Farthen Dur with steady strides and shaking hands. You shouldn't be doing this. She is good and noble and wonderful and you are the bastard son of a monster with questionable morals and dark thoughts. You should leave, while you can, while she won't get hurt.

"Murtagh!" Nasuada calls, her face lighting up, and you know that you can't turn back, even though you _should_. Instead, you smile, hoping your face doesn't crack with the effort, and take her hand.

The two of you spend hours in the tunnels, walking together through the city, talking, laughing. You decide that you love her.

And then a messenger rushed up with terrible news, and Ajihod is dead and Nasuada collapses into your arms, sobbing, and all you can think of is _it should have been me._

The funeral is two days later, and the woman you love is together, her hurts hidden. The dwarves put Ajihod in the ground, and the Varden goes on.

You have the woman you love, you have trust, you have hope. But your heart is shaken and you see his face at night, asking you to come along, telling you that he'll call on you another time.

And he is dead, now.

(It should have been you.)

* * *

III: Flight

_"Run, boy, run!"_

You hear Tornac shouting behind you, roaring, his horse screaming as it is torn to pieces but swords and bows and arrows. You spare one glance behind you, and the silver-washed city, the blood, the screaming.

"No!"

But your shout falls on deaf (dead) ears and you keeping running, like he told you to, and you are blinded with pain and with tears. You _never_ cry, and now you can't _see—_

Perhaps it is for the best, because then you can't see the arrow, magicked, speed towards your heart, you can't see his face, torn, broken, and you can't see yourself, stunned, howling, as the arrow, barbed and fatal punches through your chest and you go flying, eyes dulling, and the stars seem to be weeping –!

(And they are weeping, aren't they?)

* * *

IV: Defiance

_"Master will be pleased to see you."_

Oh how you wish that you weren't tied up. You dearly, dearly dearly don't want to be tied up. You want to be freed, want to be able to fight the monstrous Twins that plan to return you to Galbatorix. You don't want to go. At all.

Somehow, you know that you'll die if you go, or worse. And that is not an option.

But they have taken your weapons, taken everything that could possibly free you, and you lie bound and helpless, half-starved, waiting for death.

_Eragon would think you weak. _You tell yourself, furiously. The thought enrages you, but for all your rage, your strength, you cannot break free.

But you can live. That thought, that one thing no one can take away, your right to life, your spirit, keeps you alive. You suffer in glaring silence, do not show pain or fear (even though you hurt and you're terrified, so very terrified). Within a month, you are dragged through the hated gates, back into Uru' baen.

The citizens, some of whom recognize you, watch in solemn silence. Your blue eyes flash defiance, and then there is a movement. They salute you, the gutter rats, the dirty street dwellers. As they should. You are one of them, always have been, and you are proud.

When they take you before the King, who practically spits in fury, you smile coldly and glare coolly.

He cannot take your spirit. He calls you names, spits on you, tortures you—

And you wait, lax against the ropes, and his guard is down, and then you _lunge _at him—

Galbatorix screams in rage and shock and surprise and magic leaves his hand, catches you in the heart, you fall, blood and fire crackling, sizzling—

He is roaring because you defied him, you didn't give in—

And you are dead before you hit the floor.

(Eragon would be proud.)

* * *

V: Rejection

_"Touch this."_

There's an egg, sparkling, crimson, shoved beneath your fingers.

It takes you a moment to figure out what it is—you haven't eaten in days and you're hazy with pain and hunger and fear. You can feel the King above you and you bare your teeth at him, violently, even though you're helpless and he can kill you with a flick of his deadly fingers.

And then you realize that the cool, smooth thing under your hands is one of the dragon eggs and you recoil, because the Rider is in your blood, your father has it and your brother has it, and you don't want it, because what use are you to a dragon? You're crippled and ruined and hurt inside.

(And the egg is red, like your father's dragon. You do not want to be your father.)

Galbatorix snarls in frustration and drags your hands to the egg, forcefully.

You growl weakly but you're held there, your fingers pressed against the cool shell, waiting, fearful, of what will happen.

Nothing does.

The egg doesn't wobble or squeak or shatter. The dragonling inside it doesn't want you, apparently.

Galbatorix curses and kicks you, swiftly, in the ribs. You hiss and then he's gone, the red egg winking away.

It didn't choose you.

For a moment, you are releved. You won't be your father.

And then the sting of rejection comes.

You aren't good enough.

(And really, have you ever been?)

* * *

I: End

_"It's okay."_

The battlefield is lit with smoke and fire and blood and you watch him, calm, dispassionate. Your brother is struggling with something that is greater than himself (pain, fear, heroism) and he's trying not to cry.

You watch and wish you could feel, but Thorn is dead and you should be too and you can't feel anymore because there's no point, really.

The bodies of the dead lie around you.

They killed your Thorn.

You killed them.

Roran Stronghammer, Blodhgarm the elf, Hrothgar's successor Orik, elves, humans, dwarves, Urgals. All are dead because you killed them.

Eragon is fighting with himself because now it's his turn to kill you.

"It's okay." You tell him, gently. "Come on, it'll be _over_."

"I can't." Eragon whispers, his blue sword glittering. (Zar'roc is buried inside Roran's chest.) "I can't, you're my brother."

You almost smile at him.

"It's okay." You repeat, and then you lunge, leap for him—

His sword comes up—

It punches through your armor, your chest, your lungs.

You fall to the ground, wheezing, your vision guttering like a candle.

He looks at you like he's about to cry. "It's okay," you whisper, and then you die.

(Thorn is waiting for you.)

* * *

**If you have any questions, comments, or requests, please leave a review! It's open to everyone!**

**I think I am going to do Brom next, okay?**

**Thanks!**

**~WSS**


	7. Brom

**Told you I'd update. :D I also realized that I need to go back and edit all of these... and update everything else... I'm so far behind...**

* * *

Brom

I: Destiny

"_Dad, can I go see the Rider?"_

"You must stay here, Brom," Holcomb orders you, sternly. "There is work for you to do, and your mother is sick. She needs your help."

"Father—"

"_No, _Brom. The Dragon Riders are bad luck. They are _unnatural_, and I will not have a son of mine disgrace our ancestors and the town of Kuasta by joining them! The Riders bring misfortune!"

You bow your head, strands of ginger hair falling into your eyes.

"Yes, father." And you go about your work, helping your mother, and as the sun sets, the Dragon Rider flies overhead, on his great golden dragon. He's not taking anyone with him—no egg hatched for the villagers of Kuasta.

You swallow your bitterness. An egg wouldn't have chosen you anyway, and you go back to your work, back to your life, pushing the Riders out of your mind.

(But you can't help but dream, and at night you dream of a blue egg and a blue dragon and you think, maybe, that it was supposed to be.)

* * *

II: Black

_"Join me."_

You stare up at the Monster, hurt and bleeding, your ginger hair sticking up, matted with blood. "No," you spit, anger and pain shaking in your body. "No, you killed them."

The Monster laughs, his bright eyes wild. "I killed the Riders because they were corrupt, you see, young Brom. They were fat and lazy and drunk with their power, so I killed them. But you, you could be great."

Saphira makes a sound, pinned under Shruikan.

You ache for her, for the dead.

"I will make you a legend," Galbatorix promises. "You will stand at my side as we bring _peace_ to Alagaesia."

And for a moment you see it—golden light bursting from the sky, bathing a city while elves and dwarves mingle with humans, happily trading and drinking and laughing together. Dragonlings amble through the streets and the Riders, the new Riders, glorious and strong and noble, stand along the walls, proudly, watching the city with benevolent eyes, their dragons soaring in the skies above them.

The image—the future, what could be—is so strong that you and Saphira both, in your pain and fear and desperation, _want _it.

You lick you lips and Saphira goes still.

"Join me," says Galbatorix, soothingly. "And be free."

"Yes," you murmur, and you bow to him and he laughs.

(And later, you stand on the gates above Teirm and see the black and the death and the war, and you are so far gone that you don't even care any more.)

* * *

III: Family

_"Brother!"_

The cry falls on Morzan's ears and he turns to look at you, his mismatched eyes wide and confused. He is struggling, you can see, with the Urge (to kill you) and his dragon, Ibara, snarls and whines and Saphira calls to him, confused.

The city is painted orange and black with fire and smoke and the Dragon Riders scream, keening, dying.

"Brother, please," you look into his eyes and see everything—training fighting loving each other, becoming family because he had none and yours wouldn't acknowledge you—reflected there, in the blue and the brown.

"Master Galba—"

"Galbatorix isn't your Master!" You plead, desperate. Saphira keens, lowly. "Oromis is. They tortured him, Morzan! Galbatorix tortured Master Oromis and Master Glaedr—they're going to _die_. Remember whose side you're on!"

Morzan drags a hand through his hair, anger and pain and love mingled on his face. Zar'roc gleams in the firelight, _misery_ written on its side.

"You're my brother," you tell him, and you can see it, you're winning him over, calming him down. His shoulders slump and Ibara goes still and his mismatched eyes flicker shut, briefly.

"Brom," he says, and he says it like a prayer. "Brom."

You smile, shaky and happy and relieved. "Yeah, brother. It's me, it's Brom."

Morzan's eyes open. "I loved you, you know," he says. "I loved you like you were my own family."

"I know." It hasn't hit you yet, that he's saying _loved, _not love.

"You and Master Oromis, you raised me. Loved me. You were my family."

"I know." And it still hasn't hit you, and you don't notice Ibara coil, his crimson eyes going hard, or Zar'roc rise, just a little (just enough).

"I have a new family now," Morzan says, and his mismatched eyes go cold and Zar'roc is up and Ibara lunges and Saphira screams and screams and screams, and you see fire and blood and then—!

(You still didn't notice that he said _loved_, not _love_, and perhaps its better this way, because at least you died thinking your brother loved you.)

* * *

IV: Hidden

_"He's coming."_

"Brom," Selena's voice is anxious and her eyes are wide. She clings to your hand and you can feel your child kick against you, sensing his or her mother's nervousness.

Morzan is coming. He's drunk again, and this time he _knows_ that his wife is with another man, with his oldest friend and enemy.

You hold onto Selena and press yourself against the door, pulling every little scrap of protective magic that you can from yourself. Morzan is screaming down the halls, bellowing in rage, his dragon howling in the courtyard.

Selena's son, Murtagh, a little lad of only three, cringes and buries his face in his mother's dress. The bandages wrapped around his middle show that he's already seen his father's anger, and something in you sparks fiercely.

"Come," you whisper, and you gather them to you, sprinting away from the screaming and the red fire that's spilling out into the castle. Morzan sees you, in the distance, and he shrieks his rage, but he's drunk and slow and you throw your magic out of you, in one great burst, and there's smoke and dust and crumbling rock, and the Monster can't see you, can't get to you or them as you all run.

You run and run and run, with them at your side. Horses take you far and disguise takes you farther, deep into the north, where Morzan and his dragon look and look but they can't find you and your small family.

Months after you run, you stay hidden but you breathe a sigh of relief.

You got away. You escaped. For once in your life, you didn't fail.

Your son is born in the spring, strong and healthy and _free_, and Murtagh heals and learns not to be afraid and Selena, your Selena, smiles and dances and sings now, without Morzan over her shoulder, cold and cruel and demanding.

You are happy and the boys call you "father" and Selena calls you "husband," and all is well.

You hide, but you are _free_.

(And at night you don't see them dying, anymore, and leaving you all alone; in your dreams, your family always escapes.)

* * *

V: Safe

_"We should leave."_

The words leave your mouth before you can think about stopping them. Eragon looks at you, confused but trusting. Dras Leona doesn't sit well with him either—he's a farm boy at heart, thriving in the open spaces.

The dingy, cramped, dirty city is too much for him, and it's not _safe_.

You can feel the warning pricking in your head, right at the base of your skull.

_Run_, it says, in the same voice that Saphira used to have. _Run now, you'll die. _

So you gather the boy (_your_ boy, your fierce, sweet, loyal, brilliant boy) and his dragon and you run.

Hard and fast, you run. You make it through the forest, into another town, then another, while rumors of the Ra'zac and their hellish steeds sweep after you. They are furious, the whispers say. They lost their prey.

Grimly, you know that if you don't make it to the Beors within the fortnight, you will lose everything. (Your son his mother hope for the future, all of it).

So you make it. You push and push and, with the faint screams of the Ra'zac and the hot sand of the Hadrac behind you, you make it.

Eragon collapses to the ground and sleeps for three days.

You watch, indulgent, triumphant, because you've _made _it. Your boy is safe—the Varden has its hero.

As you walk through the halls of Tronjhiem, to thunderous delight, you think that maybe, now it is time to sleep.

(And sleep you do, and you don't dream about blood and death and blue eyes—no, you dream about a city bathed in golden light, and your son, your wonderful son, is standing there, on the wall, watching peace and smiling.)

* * *

I: Light

"_Don't leave me."_

You can hear your son, your brilliant, naïve, brave son, and you can see him, blurring, above you. His hands are hot on your own, and he's got his mother's anxious eyes, holding onto you like he's afraid you'll leave him.

Which is exactly what you are doing—leaving him. You should stay, watch your boy, tell him everything. He doesn't know you're his father. He's Eragon, Son of None, and he's going to stay that way. It's sad, really.

You've watched him for fifteen years, watched him grow, watched him find himself. It's bittersweet, this thing, because here your boy becomes a man and you won't be able to see him.

The wound, the terrible wound, it's killing you. It's sucking and sucking away at your life, a drain, a great sinkhole, and you find yourself fading fast.

There's another man in the corner, barely more than a child, and you know him. Murtagh, the son of your friend-brother-enemy, who has Morzan's face and ice blue eyes.

Maybe, you think, Eragon and Murtagh can heal the sins of their fathers, can mend the rift two men created.

Eragon's pleading. He's begging with you, clinging to you desperately.

You should stay, but you don't want to.

The wound is taking you and you can't fight it, not now, not anymore.

It is time to go.

You pull your boy down, whisper in his ear, and he makes a sound like a dying animal, keening, low. You hold his hand.

He shakes, and you sigh, rattling.

The wound pulls.

It is time to go, and the cave is fading, something _else _is taking over, and you hear, in your soul, not your mind, Eragon cry _father!_ but you are gone, you close your eyes.

When you open them, there is light.

(There is always light.)

* * *

**Review! And feel free to suggest characters and scenarios!**

**~WSS**


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